βi donβt like poetryβ ok cool but the poetry i like makes me feel like my hair is on fire

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@rabbitfootmouth
βi donβt like poetryβ ok cool but the poetry i like makes me feel like my hair is on fire

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[text ID: tweet by Sanna Wani that reads,Β βall of my poetry is just me saying grief grief grief and then pointing at Godβ]
something i wrote after watching lovleg s2e02 clip 5
writing heavy and distorted poetry which turns into suicide notes with these pens
starting a 12 step program

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Marcia Hafif (American, 1929-2018), FP:RM: rue Beaubourg (French Painting Ready Made), 1991. Oil on canvas, 12 x 12 in.
excerpt from the notebook
cherries
Draft
sick bleach + whale you don't notice but you feel closer to me when i'm girly + suck your cock with my big doe eyes + tight red shirt β boyishness is a roommate with a hookup app. If I zone out I'll let you fondle my softness. we can be lovers Eden-mates. Kissing and biting like anyone dried flaps and orange peel sex with pulp strings caught between your teeth, whiter than mine squarer

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keep thinking about that richard siken interview where he's talking about simplifying the metaphor, by removing the "is" β and the moon, terrible. the distance between the object and the thing to which it is likened to falls away, it feels [it reads], smoother, unhindered by simplified vocabulary. and so, it becomes alive, breathing.
its the same way sally rooney has removed quotation marks, and her writing feels smoother from it, subtler, a more coherent story where there is no stepping in our out of characters. everything falls in line, the veil draws back: the distance between character/reader is removed and instead of having the feeling be cut up by speech marks β there is a greater intimacy. the boundary is gone. the feelings of the character no longer at a distance to yourself, the reader is immersed in the skin of the character. no longer a book away.
i see the same thing in the internets refusal to Capitalise. (realise how you just read that word differently? your internal tone of voice heightening at that C?) thats again, removing the distance [!], keeping a hold of that intimacy with the reader. cherishing that tender bond.
its interesting, because siken says he needs to rely on the reader to make the associative leap when the "is" is left out. the same is true for rooney, i think. the lack of quotation marks demands attention. with an unfocused an divided mind, the lack of speech marks can easily be more annoying than smooth, stopping the flow of which the text invites the reader into. the capitalization of words is a stop too, a poem with uneven syllables: an irregular heartbeat ruining the pulse of the rhythm.
comparative words, quotation marks, and capitalized words β they all stop the blood-flow of the text. disrupt the rhythm. cut the flow short. maybe im simply very sensitive to these things, maybe i think too much about literary devices, but i love this style of writing. this stripping down β this removal of boundary and convention. the moon, terrible [how incredible!!] more please <3
So uh the connection I have to girlhood but also the masculinity I feel and desire to have been born a guy but also don't want to be full on guy is confusing. Like an aversion to using she but also the way girlhood Is is a mood and I'm connected to it always and forever.
In this essay I will simply scream.
I'll never find a consistent art style. But I like these guys.
like if you write poetry
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sick bleach + whale you don't notice but you feel closer to me when i'm girly + suck your cock with my big doe eyes + tight red shirt β boyishness is a roommate with a hookup app. If I zone out I'll let you fondle my softness. we can be lovers Eden-mates. Kissing and biting like anyone dried flaps and orange peel sex with pulp strings caught between your teeth, whiter than mine squarer

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
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it's star wars day + he makes sure i'm okay. i refused an oily + cheese-filled sandwich + and retreated to the dark basement. his brother puts on a game, eats some sugary peaches and swears after keyboard clicks. today i am filled with a sun-sick joy. it syrups its way into me. i'm less shake, more person. i am a whole that nobody can touch. i'm myself in a way that i am just now learning to be.